Our forms displace a precise amount of air.
We have volume.
Your thoughts do not.
We remember all that made us.
You do not.
The air and the fire, the currents of water,
grains of sand, and eons of pressure. Our value is not relational.
Yours, sadly, is.
Gutter, rooftop, buried, shattered, exalted, exposed,
it is all the same to us.
You collect us as trinkets.
That does not make us trinkets.
We adore gravity.
You do not.
It’s no accident
the only time you felt real today
was when you walked in the rain
and through water-speckled glasses
looked at your dog
looking at you.
[After losing several posts connected to these pictures, I submitted myself to them. The story of conspiracy and monopoly (think: Comcast) and co-dependence and Murphy’s law (mine, the Universe’s) will have to wait].
The jack hammering I was soooo grateful was over, is not (four doors down, audible even with all the windows closed) So, off to work I go — to this site, where I will try not to slip as I dig and try not to send too many pots tumbling down to the road as I go.
I have filled several empty perennial pots with rocks already — confirming that old saying that the best thing we grow in New England is rock! (well, alright, maybe it’s a saying that I made up — but it OUGHT to be an old saying).
In the back of this property, the garden I installed last year grew so well and so fast, that I am adding extra inches between these pots!